attachment stood forth in formidable array, and bid fair to outweigh all prudential considerations.

"The tempter saw her time;-the work she plied."

In the midst of these pro and con deliberations, she contrived to throw in his way, as if by chance, a journal of petty sums she had saved him at sundry times, which she had honestly accounted for; and another paper, of even more importance, in the eyes of Jacob, than the saving of money, her will, in which she had left the residue of her scanty earnings to "the best of masters." This was the ultima manus. succumbed to Dan Cupid; and in the short period of a few months, the fat housekeeper became the lawful spouse of one of the richest men in the city of London.

:

He

In a brief space, Jacob discovered that he had been cajoled out of his liberty. He stormed and raved, and fumed and fretted accordingly, with the restlessness of a panther shut up in a cage; but in vain. The knot that bound him was tied too fast to be loosened by the tooth of a disappointed old man. He sunk into the feeble inertness that usually succeeds to unbounded rage. He was compelled to view, with forbearing patience, the ravages of an extravagant woman on a fortune which had hitherto known no diminution; and forced to smile acquiescence, though he secretly writhed in agony. To have encountered a disappointment in temper, disposition, affection; to have found her love, indifference; her suavity, deceit all this he could have borne: he could have endured having been tricked out of his heart;-but to superadd to these, the waste of his darling treasure, the one absorbing good, in which he had bound up his whole soul,-this was, indeed, a burthen too grievous to be borne. He fretted; he was sick at heart. When asked how he did, he shook his head, and looked grave. His iron countenance assumed a cadaverous aspect, and his sullen eyes, sunk in their sockets, gave indications of incipient atrophy. To his other afflictions was now added a phantasy that haunted him hourly. He thought he should die for want. So strong a hold had this megrim on his imagination, that it allowed him no repose; and, in twelve months after the fatal vow that had destroyed his peace, he was borne to the family-vault of the Stocks, leaving behind him half a million sterling, at the disposal of his domestic tyrant. Q. Q. Q.

PETER PINDARICS.

Blindman's Buff.

Three Wags (whom some fastidious carpers
Might rather designate three Sharpers)

Enter'd at York the Cat and Fiddle,

And finding that the host was out

On business for two hours or more,
While Sam the rustic waiter wore

The visage of a simple lout,

Whom they might safely try to diddle;
They order'd dinner in a canter,

Cold or hot, it matter'd not,
Provided it was served instanter.

And as the heat had made them very
Dry and dusty in the throttles,

They bade the waiter bring three bottles
Of prime old Port, and one of Sherry.
Sam ran with ardour to the larder,
Then to the kitchen,

And, as he briskly went to work, he
Drew from the spit a smoaking turkey,
With sausages embellish'd, which in
A trice upon the board was spread,
Together with a nice cold brisket,
Nor did he even obliviscate
Half a pig's head.

To these succeeded puddings, pies,

Custards and jellies,

All doom'd to fall a sacrifice

To their insatiable bellies;
As if, like camels, they intended
To stuff into their monstrous craws
Enough to satisfy their maws,
Until their pilgrimage was ended.
Talking, laughing, eating and quaffing,
The bottles stood no moment still;
They rallied Sam with joke and banter,
And, as they drained the last decanter,
Call'd for the bill.

'Twas brought, when one of them who eyed
And added up the items, cried,
"Extremely moderate indeed!

I'll make a point to recommend
This inn to every travelling friend;
And you, Sam, shall be doubly feed."
This said, a weighty purse he drew,
When his companion interposed,
"Nay, Harry, that will never do,
Pray let your purse again be closed,
You paid all charges yesterday,
'Tis clearly now my turn to pay."
Harry, however, wouldn't listen
To any such insulting offer;
His generous eyes appear'd to glisten

Indignant at the very proffer;

And though his friend talk'd loud, his clangour

Served but to aggravate Hal's anger.

"My worthy fellows," cried the third,

"Now really this is too absurd;

What! do both of ye forget,

I have not paid a farthing yet?
Am I eternally to cram

At your expense?-'tis childish quite ;
I claim this payment as my right-
Here-how much is the money, Sam?"

To this most rational proposal

The others gave such fierce negation,
One might have fancied they were foes all,
So hot became the altercation,

Each in his purse his money rattling,
Insisting, arguing, and battling.

One of them cried at last-" A truce!-
This point we will no longer moot;
Wrangling for trifles is no use,

And thus we 'll finish the dispute.-
That we may settle what we three owe,
We'll blindfold Sam, and whichsoe'er
He catches of us first, shall bear
The whole expenses of the trio,
With half-a-crown, (if that's enough,)
To Sam, for playing Blindman's Buff."

Sam liked it hugely-thought the ransom,
For a good game of fun, was handsome;
Gave his own handkerchief beside,
To have his eyes securely tied,
And soon began to grope and search,
When the three knaves, I needn't say,
Adroitly left him in the lurch,

Slipp'd down the stairs and stole away.
Poor Sam continued hard at work;
Now o'er a chair he gets a fall,
Now floundering forward with a jerk,
He bobs his nose against the wall;
And now encouraged by a subtle
Fancy that they 're near the door,
He jumps behind it to explore,
And breaks his shins against the scuttle,
Crying, at each disaster-Drat it!
Dang it! 'Od rabbit it! and Rat it!

Just in this crisis of his doom,
The host, returning, sought the room,
And Sam no sooner heard his tread,

Than, pouncing on him like a bruin,
He almost shook him into ruin,
And with a shout of laughter said—
"By gom, I have cotch'd thee now! so down
With cash for all, and my half-crown."

Off went the bandage, and his eyes

Seem'd to be goggling o'er his forehead,
While his mouth widen'd with a horrid

Look of agonized surprise.

"Gull!" roared his master-"Gudgeon! dunce!

Fool as you are, you 're right for once,

'Tis clear that I must pay the sum ;

But this one thought my wrath assuages

That every halfpenny shall come

Out of your wages!"

H.

ON THE AMUSEMENTS OF THE STUDIOUS.

EVERY class of men have some characteristic amusements to which they are attached. What is relaxation to one, is probably labour to another. A weaver, or any other" rude mechanical," when he wishes to divert himself, takes a walk, a mode of enjoyment quite alien to the notions of an unfortunate two-penny postman. Amusement consists principally in the excitement which the mind experiences from a change of ideas; and it is on this account that we so frequently find men taking pleasure in pursuits which appear entirely foreign to their usual habits and occupations. Thus we see the highest intellects delighting in trifles. Agesilaus diverting his children and himself with riding on a stick, and Scipio picking up shells on the sea-shore. This seems to be the reason why our poets do not carry their poetry into life, and why such a discrepancy exists between their biography and their verses. I need cite no instances, but for form's sake I will mention Young, who possessed nothing of that sombre character which appears in his poems.

Literary men, therefore, are often addicted to amusements which have nothing intellectual about them. Their object is to let their minds bie fallow, as a member of the agricultural committee would express himself: and they delight to abandon themselves to pleasures in which there is no waste of thought. Can any thing more completely childish be imagined than Dean Swift driving his friends the Sheridans before him through all the rooms of the deanery? So the confinement and study which the learned are compelled to undergo make them feelingly alive to the beauties of Nature. Perhaps a happier man could not be found in the world than Pope, when he was walking in his garden and superintending its improvements. From the same cause many of our literary men, like Charles Fox, have been much attached to the sports of the field; while those whose occupations are of a more stirring and boisterous nature are often insensible of such pleasures. At first sight it appears singular that such a man as Sir Philip Sidney should have disliked the sports of the chace, so fashionable too as they were in his day; and yet Osborn tells us that he used to say, that next to bunting he liked hawking worst. The gallant Lord Herbert of Cherbary also had a distaste for hunting. In those chivalrous times a knight was glad to leave the saddle.

The scholars of antiquity were a jovial race of men; hearty good fellows, who were fond of all the boisterous pleasures of life. "The most virtuous, grave, and honest men," says Plutarch, "use feasts, jests, and toys, as we do sauce to our meals." Even Socrates used to dance and sing. Scipio and Lælius, we know, were accustomed

"discincti ludere donec

Decoqueretur olus."

Mæcenas was fond of his sports; and if Virgil and Horace did not join in them, it was their infirmity which prevented them :-

"Lusum it Mæcenas: dormitum ego Virgiliusque ;
Namque pila lippis inimicum, et ludere crudis."

Dancing appears to have been a great amusement with the learned of antiquity; and, in truth, it is a most scholarlike diversion. Lucian, in his book de Saltatione, confesses that he took infinite delight in singing, dancing, and music; and even the grave Scaliger acknowledges that he was unmeasureably affected with music, and that he took much pleasure in beholding dances. Cicero, it is true, has told us that nemo saltat sobrius, a maxim in which the literati of modern times seem to coincide. There is certainly no amusement in which so much exercise may be compressed within so short a time as dancing, and I would therefore propose it to our savans as a most desirable accomplishment. Would it not be well to institute a sort of Literary Almack's? The advantages which might be derived from such an assembly are incalculable. The author and the reviewer would forget their mutual heartburnings in thus mingling in the same festive scene; and the injuries inflicted by the Edinburgh and the Quarterly would be redressed in the mazes of "L'Eté" or "La Poule." What might not be expected from the keen encounter of so many wits? Nay, what fond attachments might not arise between our most celebrated writers; and what prodigies of future genius might not the world thus promise itself! Then, again, what hints for histories, what embryos of epics, what skeletons of romances, might not be found at such an assembly; and how pleasantly contrasted would it be with the venerable dulness of the Royal Society's meetings! There are many other exercises also which are peculiarly fitted for our literati, who, as their business is reflection, should make action their amusement. Upon this point, I cannot do better than transcribe the advice of one of our own old chivalrous scholars. "It will be good also for a gentleman to learn to leap, wrestle, and vault on horseback, they being all of them qualities of great use."

It must not be supposed, because some instances may be found of men of letters who have been averse to violent exercises or lively amusements, that therefore my theory is incorrect. In general, such instances are where the men have been of weak constitutions or sickly habits; as, unfortunately, has been the case with too many of our scholars. Pope was feeble and wretched all his life; and would have been annihilated had he ventured to go a-hunting. Gibbon suffered much from ill-health; and his greatest pleasure, therefore, was pacing quietly up and down his garden. Gray, who was a nervous man, was lady-like in his amusements, and could fancy no higher gratification than to lie at full length on a sofa or a bench reading novels. Beattie has represented his young Minstrel as shunning the ruder sports of his companions; and that melancholy retiring disposition often distinguishes the temperament of genius; but, at the same time, it is frequently accompanied with weakness or ill-health. Sir William Jones, too, passed a sickly childhood. If Johnson's habits were sedentary, both from the want of faculties for exercise and the cumbrousness of his person, it must be remembered, that he has sufficiently recorded the delight which violent motion was capable of affording him, in his well-known remark," that life contained nothing better than the excitation produced by being hurried along at full speed in a post-chaise. We could mention more than one grave and learned judge, or solemn statesman, "è consiliis secretioribus regis," who have taken no small delight in cheering the hounds and tracking the footsteps of the hare; indeed, it has been